Sessions
by BedeliaDuMaurier
Summary: Ana, a young woman, seeks therapy to understand her homicidal ideations. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong doctor. Hannibal/OC pairing, AU/Set prior to show. Rated M for later content.
1. Session One

"May I be frank with you?"

"I'm not sure it would do me any good if you weren't."

"Most patients are reluctant to delve fully into their reasons for seeing me for the first few session; often they feel unable to confide in someone they've known for so short a time. We have had six sessions now and I am still predominately unaware of why you are here. Never once have you taken off your coat, set down your purse, or taken off your hat. Even now, you haven't removed your sunglasses for the past ten minutes. Every session you seem to hunt for something to talk about and for the most part they are not the type of troubles most would seek therapy over. I'm concerned that you have a much more antagonizing issue you're avoiding discussing. Please, let me reiterate: nothing you say will leave this room and I promise you my strictest confidence, Ana."

She sat patiently, absorbing every word. Her hands were resting on a small, black purse made of soft leather. She wore a knee length wool coat, cropped at the cuffs to show elegantly boney wrists. The neckline was wide and round and through it, a string of pearls could be seen resting on the slopes of her clavicle. The overcoat was cut loosely, in a vintage fashion, and hung to her knees when she stood. Now that she was seated across from him, he could see a more fitted black dress or skirt was underneath the light tawny coat. She wore short black gloves made of satin and a petite pillbox hat, made of fur, with a slightly domed top. The sunglasses were horn-rimmed with a wire frame at the bottom of the lens. She had an aura of elegance about her, and not just in this moment. Every session, Hannibal was surprised by the young woman more than twenty years his junior. She was polite, almost to a fault, having spent ten minutes past the scheduled time of her first appointment in the waiting room because she refused to knock on the door, so as not to interrupt. She was certainly cultured, often mentioning museums she had recently visited and books she was reading while the chatted idly in the first few minutes of every session. Her first language was English, which she spoke flawlessly, never um-ing and ah-ing, always choosing her words with care. She spoke Swedish nearly as well and as a result they were able to share a few short conversations in Danish.

She removed her glasses with a sigh, then her gloves, placed both items carefully in her purse, and set it on the floor beside her chair.

"I feel like a predator." She voiced after a moment of consideration.

"What do you mean by that?"

"There are times when I can't stop thinking about ending someone. Things that would be insignificant to others send me into downward spiral of anger and the only thing that calms me down is imaging pushing a blade through someone's neck and ripping it out the front."

She spoke evenly, obviously having given thought to what she would say when the topic came up, right up until she described driving a knife into someone's throat. With those words her even tone dropped, her voice grew deeper, darker. Her hands made a small, crude motion, pantomiming the goring and tearing actions. She settled her body back in the chair, inhaled deeply through her nose with closed eyes, and exhaled when she opened them. Her face relaxed, muscles unclenched, but her eyes ferocious.

"What sort of things make you angry enough that you would imagine killing someone over them?"

"It's the smallest things that set me off. Mostly it's the everyday rudeness that society has grown to except rather than weed out. There's no excuse for poor manners: when a person hands you something, you say 'thank you', when you want something, you say 'please, may I have...' not 'give me that'. I cannot stand when ignorant people are allowed to voice their opinions, as they are almost always founded with fear and built on lies. Yet the thing that makes me most angry has to be when someone underestimates me; when I'm offered unnecessary help lifting a 'heavy' object or when a person tries to explain something I'm already aware of to me. I hate being treated like an invalid because of my size, my age, and most of all, my gender. There's a part of me that just wants to stop fighting and massacre fifty people just so I could show everyone what I'm truly capable of."

Hannibal mulled over her words in silence for a moment. Ana reminded him much of himself at that age: furious, filled with indignation, and homicidal.

"How does your reaction to these moments make you feel?"

"It's hard to explain. Both my mother and her mother before her suffered from a severe lack of ability to control their anger so have I always been angry, the rage is nothing new or unexpected. However, when I was younger and would get angry, I never imagined hurting anyone. Perhaps that was due to young age though because as I got older my imagination seemed to get darker and more violent. Since I've always been this way, I can't envision a different life, therefore I don't necessarily feel good or bad about the reactions."

"If you aren't bothered by your reactions, why did you decide to seek therapy?"

"On a fundamental level I understand that what I feel and a majority of my thoughts are abnormal. That isn't to say that I strive for normalcy but rather that the extent to which the thoughts are abnormal and my lack of grief or guilt over them has piqued my interest."

"Is that to say that these thoughts have become more present in your life recently? There must have been a change that would push you to seek an understanding."

"I don't just feel them when I'm angry anymore. It's often, everyday there is at least once that I think about killing, somedays the thoughts never end. I decided to see you because I think that if I can gain some understanding I'll have more control over whatever it is. I'm not holding out hope though."

"Why is that?"

"Because as of right now, the only thing keeping me from killing is thought of prison. But it's waining, Doctor. My internal voice is growing darker every passing day. It's seeping into every moment of life, contorting every thought." She paused for a moment, once again closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. She exhaled, opened her eyes, spoke, "I wish I could smoke in here."

There was a silence between them while Hannibal wrote down small notes. Sometimes jotting phrases or whole sentences that he enjoyed hearing her say, trinkets of their time together. She had proven more interesting than he had originally thought.

He stopped writing and looked at Ana. She peered back with a mixture of emotions behind her eyes, all very well concealed to untrained eye. She placed both forearms on the arms of the chair and tapped one index finger inaudibly. Hannibal stood and walked to his desk, removing a small glass ashtray. He placed it on the table next to Ana.

"Old habits," He said, "Many people say the hardest part of quitting is drinking their morning coffee without a cigarette, I've found writing essays for journals has been my downfall. It doesn't feel the same without the smell and the taste."

"It's always been long drives for me. If I'm in a car for more than twenty minutes, I'll want a cigarette. I try not to smoke too often though, it dulls the taste of food." She said, unbuttoning her coat and removing a small silver case from an interior pocket. She had only just placed one unfiltered cigarette to her lips when Hannibal offered her the flame from his lighter. She leaned in and took a drag from the cigarette. Ana exhaled the smoke away from the pair and thanked him for the light.

Hannibal resumed his seat across from Ana and watched her revel in the smoke for a moment. The two spoke more at length for a quarter of an hour before she donned her gloves and glasses again.

"Ana, if it suits your schedule, I think it may be best if we saw each other twice a week. There are many things you brought up this session that we should cover individually at length. I think sessions twice a week would provide a more stable schedule to discuss them." Hannibal stated at the door before she left.

"Unfortunately, I don't have a very open schedule at this time. I'm not sure how late you see patients but as of right now, I'm only free Friday evenings after 5:30."

"I generally only schedule appoints up to 5:00pm and close by 6:00 but if you were interested in meeting twice a week, 5:30 on Fridays would not be a problem."

"Oh, I really don't want to put you out and I would hate to make you change your whole evening around."

"Nonsense, it wouldn't be a problem at all. I'm often here much later than 6:00 for paper work and research." He said, giving her a small smile.

"Well, then I will see you Friday evening. Thank you, Doctor Lecter." She said offering him a gloved hand.

"Please, Hannibal is fine." He said shaking her hand.

"Thank you, Hannibal." She corrected, before leaving. Hannibal stood in the doorway and watched her go, even as his next patient walked through the door.


	2. Session Two

Hannibal saw his patient to the door, bid them a good evening, and quietly closed the door to his office. It was 5:00 pm and his final patient, Ana, wasn't due for another thirty minutes. He poured himself a small amount of wine and took to reviewing his notes from Ana's last session; he could still hear the violence in her voice while he sipped his wine, alone.

Before their session, Hannibal made it a point to leave his office door ajar, as a welcoming gesture for Ana. However, he was greeted by the sight of her already shrugging off her coat in the waiting room. Seeing her bare, lissome shoulders, he became progressively more and more aware that he had never seen Ana without her coat covering every inch from her neck to her knees. He thought it was somewhat shameful that he hadn't as she was rather beautiful; delicate in appearance like spun sugar. Underneath her specious appearance, she was quite strong, covered in lean muscle. Her arms drifted a little way out from her body, resting more to the front of her hips than her sides. Hannibal suspected it was ingrained from ballet. She was small, certainly thin enough to join the ballet, and moved with an acquired grace not often seen outside a danseuse.

She hung her coat and hat on a rack near one of the far windows of the waiting room. Her hair was tightly wrapped in a French twist with the exception of her short bangs, which were swept gently toward one side. She had on a black bateau dress, fitted around her hips with a straight skirt. It was longer than most women care to wear - ending just below mid-calf. She looked like a woman out of her own time, trying desperately to cling to the elegance of an era long since passed.

She placed her gloves inside her purse before turning to check the door. The pair made eye contact, surprise was visible in her eyes.

"Good evening, Hannibal, I must not have seen you there."

"How long have you been dancing?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Nearly fourteen years now. I'm only a part of a small company, we do some shows around the area, mostly excerpts from larger works. You have a discerning eye, Doctor."

"One should take time to enjoy the finer things in life. Please, come in." He said, motioning toward his office.

She thanked Hannibal and moved to enter the office, pivoting her body at an angle to pass him. He inhaled deeply as she sidled closely by. Her natural scent was enticing; warm with robust notes of powder and petrichor accented by hints of musk and white flowers. He felt as though her warmth had touched his skin. The sweet scent of her skin reminded him of an exquisite wild mushroom dish he had prepared a few nights earlier using an earthy red wine.

Hannibal donned his suit jacket and collected a few items from his desk while Ana inspected some art on the walls. He placed his glass and notebook by his own chair and the glass ashtray from their previous session next to Ana's seat. Ana herself, however, was at the end table where the open bottle of wine rested. She lifted the bottle to chin height, inhaling deeply.

"Blackberries, a trace of violets, and..." She inhaled once more, "Tobacco leaf. It's delightful; cabernet franc is an underrated wine."

"Please, feel free to help yourself."

Ana thanked him and poured herself two fingers of the deep, red wine. She seemed unperturbed by the unorthodoxy of drinking with her psychiatrist during a session. She took a small drink of the wine.

"It's even lovelier on the palate." She commented, taking her place across from Hannibal.

"How have you been since we last spoke?"

"Anxious, mostly. I will admit that several times since my last session I worried that you were going to report our conversation to someone. I'm not sure what constitutes the intent to harm someone."

"I have no intention of reporting you to anyone, Ana. My obligation to report someone with the intention of harming herself or someone else only comes with the mention of specific names or plans."

"That is certainly a relief." She professed, sipping her wine.

"Have you been dealing with the same violent ideations?" Hannibal questioned, making a note in his record.

"Yes, and I feel as though they're becoming more elaborate, more distracting. I wonder if this is how serial killers felt before their first murder and, subsequently, in between killings. It's like a weight on my chest and everyday it grows heavier."

"It sounds very similar to how serial killers have been profiled, in terms of violent thoughts. It's also important to remember that we have very limited knowledge of serial killers. We have even less information about homicidal ideations in those who have never killed, as they have never been publicly evaluated. For all we know, you're perfectly normal, but the pressure society has placed on caring for every single life has made you feel as though you're abnormal."

"Do you ever think about killing? Not just wishing someone was dead, but imagining how it would feel to wrap your hands around their neck and look them in the eye while you choked the life out of them?"

There was silence between them for a moment while Hannibal mulled over her question. It wasn't long ago that he was in nearly the exact position she was describing, choking the life out of a man with the very belt he was wearing. In fact, his kidneys were still in the refrigerator. Hannibal made a mental note to use them soon.

"Everyone thinks about killing at some point their life, Ana. It's the extent to which you think about it that makes the difference."

Ana eyed him over the top of her wine glass while she had a sip. Her brows were slightly furrowed and her eyes held some form of anger. She was obviously displeased with his vague answer but bit her tongue, nonetheless.


	3. Session Three

"Hello, Doctor Lecter, it's Ana de Witte... I was wondering if there was anyway I could meet with you this evening - if not, I understand. I just feel like I'm going out of my mind and I'm not sure I can handle it. _Thursday, 3:37 PM._"

"_You have no new messages and one old message-_Hello, Doctor Lecter, it's Ana de Witte... I was wondering if there was anyway I could meet with you this evening - if not, I understand. I just feel like I'm going out of my mind and I'm not sure I can handle it. _Thursday, 3:37 PM._"

He rapped the tips of his fingers against the desk several times. The wood made a deep, quiet thud while his digits rolled across the surface. Hannibal pursed his lips in some measure; it was now 7:45 PM and he had made it a point to not call Ana. She had sounded anxious on the phone, scared to be alone with herself, with her thoughts. However, Hannibal was fairly certain Ana could handle it on her own - as she had for such a long time before meeting him - but now she had an anchor, now she had someone to open up to, and he wanted to know how she would react when the anchor was no longer there.

"_You have no new messages and one old message-_Hello, Doctor Lecter, it's Ana de Witte... I was wondering if there was anyway I could meet with you this evening - if not, I understand. I just feel like I'm going out of my mind and I'm not sure I can handle it. _Thursday, 3:37 PM._"

Hannibal played the message one last time while he gathered papers in their respective files. He had lost count of the number of times he listened to Ana's message without concern that day, but during the final listen, a sudden, sullen glower crossed his face for a fleeting moment. He brushed the thought away and continued to collect his belongings.

When all his books were stowed away and files placed in his desk, Hannibal donned his overcoat and switched his desk light off. In the newly darkened area of office, the faint, red light from the answering machine glowed brighter, a little number "1" being displayed. Hannibal lowered at the tiny number before he turned the light back on and added a note to his schedule for the morning:

_Call Ana in morning_

With that he erased the message, turned out the light, and definitively headed for home.

There was a balmy breeze that came from the inland and mixed with the cool, dewy air of the Chesapeake Bay creating thick, unseasonably warm winds. Ana always thought that these nights felt like velvet on the skin, soft and luxuriant. They didn't calm or comfort her tonight though.

She dragged on her cigarette before checking the time; it was nearly eight o'clock and she didn't know what to do. She took another drag from the cigarette and rubbed her temples. There wasn't any point in being there, it wasn't going to change anything. Ana flicked her cigarette away and pushed herself off of the brick partition, taking a moment to gaze up at the stars before she headed out.

"Hello, Ana, what brings you here so late at night?"

Ana pivoted on her heal, gravel crunching underfoot. She and Hannibal stood a few meters apart, eyes fixed on each other. Her right hand was bandaged tightly but there were still blood stains on her skin. She studied his face for a moment but couldn't gage his reaction.

"I punched and subsequently smashed a $1,600 mirror. Then I was kicked out of my dance company apparently those sort of 'shenanigans' - as they called it - are frowned upon."

"Why did you punch the mirror in the first place?" Hannibal asked calmly, placing his belongings in the trunk of his car.

"I thought it was a better idea than punching a person. It wasn't. I'm almost positive there are still shards of glass in my hand but the area is such a mess that I can't tell where they are." Ana sighed, approaching her therapist.

"May I?" Hannibal asked, extending a hand to Ana. She lifted the wounded hand, showing the poorly bandaged knuckles and the blood ready to seep through the gauze at any moment.

"It's still bleeding quite a lot." Hannibal stated, closing the trunk. He took a few steps to the passenger side and opened the door. Ana cocked her head slightly and narrowed her eyes, his expression hadn't changed throughout their whole conversation.

"I was a surgeon long before I was a therapist. I don't have the proper tools to mend your hand here, but I do at my house."

Ana eyed Hannibal looking for any flinch or twitch that aroused suspicion but she still couldn't find a single change in his expression. She contemplated whether that was comforting or disconcerting for a moment, before striding over to the passenger side.

"You looked worried for a moment." Hannibal noted.

"I was. After all, I've never spent time with you outside the capacity of our professional relationship and no one knows I'm with you." Ana said as she entered the car, "But I do have a penchant for the macabre, as you know." She added with a coquettish grin before Hannibal closed the car door.


End file.
